Playing With Fire
by Blue Kat
Summary: "Fred Weasley, you're asking me to be your fake girlfriend." "Spot on." He was crazy. His plan was crazy. And yet, I hesitated. Why? I really can't say. Maybe it was the way Fred's eyes glinted in the half-dark of the garden, hinting at possibility and promising me something I didn't quite understand. Maybe I was tired of being careful.
1. Demons in the Design

**Disclaimer:** _Harry Potter_ was written by the lovely and talented J. K. Rowling and realized on screen by lots of fantastic people at Warner Brothers. I'm just a humble admirer of their work. I don't claim any rights to the _Harry Potter_ franchise, nor am I making any money from this endeavor.

 **Author's Note:** Well…I updated my one fic after a six year absence and then I remembered that I had this one sitting around and one thing led to another and here we are. This is going to be a blend of movie and book canon. I usually prefer to go with the books, but some scenes from the movies happen to work better for what I have in mind for this fic. It may also venture a little into AU territory later in the story, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Please let me know what you think. Flames are silly—give me some constructive criticism instead. That gives me more to work with and learn from as a writer.

 _ **Playing With Fire**_

By Blue Kat

 _Chapter 1: Demons in the Design_

I knew I would have to dance with one of them before the thought even crossed McGonagall's mind. They had not exactly been keeping a low profile, laughing and cracking jokes near the back of the room. Pairing them both with someone unlikely to complement their taste for trouble was the obvious solution. It was merely a question of which one, Fred or George? Not that I could tell them apart. McGonagall's formal use of "Mr. Weasley" only told me what I already knew from the red hair and freckles. Of course, I could not ask my soon-to-be dance partner of his name—to admit such a thing was to extend a personal invitation to be the victim of some sort of identity prank. No, if I wanted to know anything, it would have to be from my own deductions.

"All right, Lewis?" he asked, grinning as though we were participating in something more fun than a supervised dance lesson.

"Just fine."

McGonagall was pushing his twin toward Alicia, who caught my eye, a resigned half-smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. I gave a slight shrug in response, an acknowledgment of the fact that we were expected to both dance with and supervise the two most mischievous students in the entire noble history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizarding.

His hand went to my waist and I felt my face flush with the utter strangeness of being touched rather intimately by someone new. My left hand tentatively went to his shoulder and he took my right in a cool and firm grasp.

"Nervous?"

"I hardly think a waltz is cause for nerves."

"I was referring to your assigned role of supervisor. It might be a bit much, even for a prefect."

"I'm always good for a challenge."

"Famous last words." His grin was devilish.

"Can I trust you to lead or shall I?"

"I wouldn't dream of steering you wrong, love. Not on the dance floor, at any rate."

He stepped forward and I moved with him. The next few moments passed in silence as we both concentrated on the finer points of the waltz.

"I have to admit, Weasley, you're not half bad," I conceded after a few moments of fairly smooth dancing.

"You sound surprised."

"Well, the average boy your age is uncommonly clumsy." I looked rather pointedly at Andrew Marconi, who'd tripped over his robes.

"Lucky for you I'm not average."

I raised an eyebrow skeptically and briefly considered mentioning that I hardly thought that was his dominant quality. He returned my gaze expectantly, as though he hoped I would verbalize something of that nature so he could twist it into some entirely new and unforeseen direction. Well, I wasn't about to play his game, I decided.

"Whatever you say, Weasley."

He grinned. "You sound doubtful."

"Not at all. You are perhaps the least average person in this room, with the exception of your esteemed brother."

"Ron the prefect? No offense, Lewis, but I think prefects are especially average."

I realized with a sinking sensation that I would have to have a guess at his name after all. Being wrong would not be a simple faux pas—it would likely invite some sort of teasing, perhaps a prank if he was in rare form. I allowed myself a split second to study his face and decide if he looked morel like a Fred or a George. I quickly realized I couldn't work it out and decided he had to be Fred for purely alphabetical reasons.

"I was referring to George, actually."

"Oh, you think I'm Fred, do you?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow upward with mild amusement.

"Of course you're Fred." _Please be Fred._

"What makes you so sure?"

I smiled wryly, mostly to conceal my doubt. "I'm a prefect, aren't I?"

He chuckled. "Your talents are wasted, Lewis. Just think of what you might accomplish with a little more disregard for the rules."

I shrugged. "I rather prefer a plain sort of existence."

Fred—I was certain it was Fred—dipped me quite suddenly and my stomach fairly near dropped to the floor, my breath _whooshing_ along with it.

"Really?" he said, eyebrow quirked. "I reckon that might get boring."

"I like boring," I said rather unconvincingly.

He grinned and pulled me out of the dip. "You never know, Lewis: you might be surprised."

At the time, I didn't attach much importance to that sentiment: it was Fred Weasley, after all. I had gotten into the habit of not taking him seriously. It wasn't until later—when I was in over my head—that those words took on a heavier meaning.

I wasn't about to tell him that, though: he gets insufferable when he turns out to be right.

* * *

I suppose that in order to talk about the Yule Ball and the bargain I made, I have to talk about Aidan Kilbourne.

To say that I fancied Aidan Kilbourne felt like an understatement. It was a crush that developed in our third year, over our shared love of murder mysteries by Muggle authors. Somewhere in between _Murder on the Orient Express_ and _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ , I fell in love or like or whatever you want to call it. It was intense and real and absolutely secret. On the surface, I was Charlotte Lewis, the prefect and exemplary student who never got distracted by something silly like a boy. Of the four Lewis sisters who had attended Hogwarts, I was widely regarded as the one who set the example, which I suppose is unusual for the youngest child. "Wise for her age" was a phrase that was used with regularity in my teachers' letters home to my parents.

In reality, I was merely good at keeping my flights of fancy hidden. Perhaps it was a measure of self-preservation; after all, I had seen how my parents had reacted when my eldest sister, Alice shut herself in her room for a week when Quidditch heartthrob Ramses Llewellyn announced his engagement to a French _Witch Weekly_ model. I had been at the uncomfortable Christmas dinner when Bianca announced her intention to run off to Scotland with a man she had met three weeks prior. And of course, I had been to countless family dinners with Ophelia and her parade of unsuitable boyfriends (although she eventually settled down with a very unassuming and respectable accountant named Martin, who introduced her to yoga and the importance of monthly budgeting).

The lesson I learned from my sisters was this: the less said about romance, the better. And so I took on the mien of a very serious student, which seemed to please everyone and bring a certain sense of relief to my parents. But I had a secret: as devoted as I was to my studies, I spent an equal amount of time analyzing whether a smile from a boy was just a smile or _more_ than a smile. In reality, I was perhaps as silly as my sisters, but better at concealing it.

So when I developed my crush on Aidan, I kept it to myself. I told no one—not even Bea and I tell Bea everything. Even Aidan with his Ravenclaw cleverness had no idea that his friend and sometimes study partner harbored a secret crush. I was cool and calm, but friendly; he was charming enough to leave me second guessing his smiles and reading a novel of meaning into the smallest gestures. It was maddening and dizzying; I loved and loathed it.

When the Yule Ball was announced in our sixth year, my thoughts initially went to Aidan. Perhaps this would be it: this would be the year that he confessed his secret feelings for me. I immediately dismissed this thought as impractical: in all likelihood, I would end up going by myself, or paired off with an unattached acquaintance. It would be awkward and unmemorable and I would spend the entire evening trying to catch Aidan's eye while he danced with some other girl—probably a modelesque blonde who was an amalgam of all of my deepest insecurities.

But I still had that little flicker of hope, which I suppose is why I felt so crushed when I overheard Genevieve Carmichael-Jenkins tell Rosalind Hunter that she had asked Aidan herself.

According to Genevieve they were going "as friends," so my little flicker of hope for a date to the Yule Ball turned into a flicker of hope for a dance. One dance. That was enough to cajole a confession out of him, right?

I ended up going with Bea's younger brother, Rodney, a fifth year with the collective maturity of a third year and the overall attention span of a below-average gnat. He abandoned me shortly after dinner ended, hot in pursuit of his pimply Hufflepuff best friend, who I think was called Spencer. I saw McGonagall scolding the pair of them later in the evening; Rodney had spilled what appeared to be pickled herring down the front of his dress robes and his friend had somehow acquired a fat lip. Part of me wanted to know the specifics of such an incident, but a larger and louder part did not want to inquire.

I wasn't disappointed in Rodney's abandonment—it just left me free to casually be available for Aidan. We had bumped into each other just before dinner and he had smiled widely and said, "Charlotte! You look stunning!"

Stunning. _Me_. And I had to admit that I did. I had gone with a strapless scarlet number that transformed me from the strait-laced, shirt-tucked-in, uniform-code abiding prefect into someone who might break the rules with you instead of reporting you to your head of house. I'd finished off the look with a heavy eye makeup and a lipstick as red as my dress.

"You look smashing," Bea had said. "I wouldn't be surprised if you have boys lining up to take Rodney's place by the end of dinner. Seriously, Charlotte, I don't think I've ever seen you look anything like this."

The difference was this: I was dressing like someone who wanted to be noticed.

To a certain extent, it worked: I was not short on dance partners. I caught Lee Jordan giving me the once-over, flashing a cheeky thumbs-up when he noticed that I had seen him looking. Kenneth Toweller's transfixion with my cleavage was such that I contemplated asking him whether he thought he'd lost something. And Montague—the same Montague who only ever spoke with me when I was threatening to write him up—even he asked me if I fancied a dance.

But not Aidan, my friend and sometimes study partner, and object of my longstanding crush. Not Aidan, who had told me I looked stunning (stunning!) before dinner.

Eventually, some hours in to the dancing, I understood why.

The crowd parted for a moment and I saw him and Genevieve Carmichael-Jenkins sitting at a table, laughing. My heart sank, but my stupid little flicker of hope was resolute: friends can talk, can't they?

In that moment, Aidan put his hand over Genevieve's. Her cheeks reddened, but she didn't pull away or do anything to enforce the "just friends" speech she had given to Rosalind Hunter. Instead, she smiled and leaned a little more toward Aidan, who looked as though he didn't want to be anywhere else in the world.

There was nothing to interpret or analyze about that scene. No amount of scarlet satin or red lipstick was going to turn Aidan away from Genevieve's green-eyed gaze.

"All right?" asked my dance partner, a seventh year who'd shown no interest in me until he realized that I had a figure.

"Yeah…" I swallowed and realized my mouth had gone dry. "I just need some air…excuse me…"

"I'll come with you," he offered, likely thinking that "getting some air" was a euphemism for getting some hands-on experience with my newly discovered figure.

"No!" I snapped. "Sorry…no, I just—I need a moment…alone."

I hurried away, shoving my way through the crowd, out the door, and into the garden, hoping that my snappish shutdown was enough of a deterrent that he wouldn't try to follow me.

I looked over my shoulder. He didn't.

I slowed my pace and found myself an unoccupied bench. The garden had been enchanted for the ball so that people could wander outside in their formalwear without coats and jackets. The air had enough of a wintery bite to cool my flushed cheeks and calm my thrumming heart.

I took some deep breaths—in through my nose, hold of a count of 8, out through my mouth. Bea had taught me that trick on the train to Hogwarts during my first year, when the prospect of leaving home for a school of strangers was so overwhelming that I was already writing the owl to ask my parents to come get me. It was one of the only times Bea has ever seen me upset. As close as we are, Bea has never actually seen me cry, not even on that first awful trainride.

 _I'm not going to cry now, either._

Initially, I think I might—the nip in the air and the ache of my heart are almost enough to push me to that point. But those deep breaths calm me enough that I can collect myself. If anything, I'm disappointed, I tell myself. It was an awful lot of time to waste on someone who wasn't going to reciprocate my feelings. Now what am I supposed to do?

Focusing on the practical aspects of the situation—as though I were assessing a business model and not my own emotions—was strangely calming, albeit depressing. I wasn't going to cry, but I also wasn't sure what I was going to do next. I had thought of this night as a turning point, and when things didn't end up changing, I found myself feeling entirely lost. Over a _boy_ , nonetheless.

This is the reason why I don't typically verbalize these thoughts. It gets a bit stupid.

I was lost in my thoughts, staring at nothing and trying not to feel anything, when someone plopped down on the bench next to me.

Fred Weasley. At least, I was pretty sure it was Fred. Fred or George, he was not exactly the person I wanted to see at the moment. I didn't really want to see anyone, to be honest, but it seemed as though I had little choice in the matter. I was not in the mood for jokes or clever conversation, and I had a mind to tell him such as soon as he opened his mouth.

But strangely enough, Fred was silent. When I stole a glance at him, I realized that he looked like he wasn't in the mood for jokes or clever conversation, either. He looked…well, he looked about as happy as I did: slouched and sour. My heart softened just a little and I reckoned I could manage some kindness.

"Can I ask your opinion?" he finally said.

I shrugged.

"Suppose you had a friend who once told you he fancied you," he said. "And suppose you weren't ready to hear that news, so you told him that you weren't ready for a relationship, but you'd let him know when you were. Then, two years later, suppose that you agree to accompany this friend to an event of some importance. Would you then, in front of this very same friend, accept a dare to snog some other bloke and then keep at it like hippogriffs in heat?"

I hadn't exactly been sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this. I cleared my throat.

"Er, well, no, that seems rather inconsiderate."

" _EXACTLY!_ " he said, raising both of his hands as though I had imparted a revelation.

I paused for a moment. "You went with Angelina, yeah?"

"Yep."

I nodded. "Well, I don't know if it makes you feel any better, but at least you got to go with someone you fancied."

His lip twitched upward. "You mean you aren't weak-in-the-knees for Rodney 'The Tosser' Pierce?"

I groaned. I had forgotten about his short-lived attempt at starting a Hogwarts radio show with his Hufflepuff sidekick. They hadn't even made it to air—McGonagall put a stop to it once she read the flyers.

"Merlin, no, a thousand times no. Rodney was a last resort. Honestly, I would've preferred to have gone with Bea, but she's got some Beauxbatons boy who's keen to show her his baguette. I never stood a chance."

Fred chuckled and his smile almost met his eyes. "What happened to your dream date, then?"

I shrugged. "I wasn't on his short list, I guess."

"Did he see you tonight?"

"Yeah, what's that have to do with it?"

Fred looked pointedly at my dress. "Lewis, with a dress like that, you're on _everyone's_ short list."

My cheeks burned. "Thanks…I think?"

"No, I mean it suits you," he amended. "You look good. Confident. A woman in charge, or whatever they say in those magazines."

I smiled and shrugged. "Well, I guess it didn't work for him."

"Who was it?"

"It doesn't matter," I said, waving him off.

But there is nothing that is more attractive to Fred Weasley than a secret that you have no intention of telling him. His eyes lit up.

"Oh come on, Lewis, I told you about my romantic woes. It's only fair."

"That was your choice."

"You're betraying the trust of our new-forged friendship." He wagged a finger at me. "Was it Diggory? All the girls love Diggory."

I laughed. "I'm not going to tell you."

"Trust, Lewis. It's about trust. Montague? I saw him lurching your way on the dance floor."

I feigned offense. "Really, do you think I have no standards?"

He shrugged. "Love is complicated. How about Smith? Potter? Weasley—anyone of us? No? Gibson? Jeffers? Cohen? Hoff? Kilbourne?"

I couldn't help it—as careful as I was, as calm and cool as I felt, I flinched when he said Aidan's name.

"It was Kilbourne, wasn't it?" There was no trace of mockery in his voice—it was oddly gentle, almost sweet. I stared at my fingernails, feeling exposed, and somewhat sick.

"Hey." He clasped my hand and I chanced a glance at him. "I meant what I said about trust. I'm not going to tell anyone."

I nodded. "No, it's…I've never told anyone. Not even Bea."

"Charlotte Lewis," he said, all mirth vanished from his expression. "Believe me when I say that I would die before I betray a dance partner."

I couldn't help myself: I smiled. "Thanks, Fred."

He squeezed my hand and dropped it. "Not at all."

We sat together in silence for a few minutes. The Yule Ball was still in full swing inside. I knew we probably had a few hours left.

"So what are we going to do?" he asked suddenly.

"About what?"

"Our mutual heartbreaks, Lewis. We've bared our souls to each other, now we have to do something about it."

I shrugged. "I'm not sure there's much to be done."

"'Course there is," said Fred. "You can always do _something_."

"Like what? What could possibly improve either one of our situations, apart from a love potion?"

"Well, there's a thought…"

"Illegal," I cut in. "And creepy. Could you honestly feel good about any relationship that originated from a love potion?"

"Depends on the sex, I s'pose." The sparkle was back in his eye, though, and I could tell he was trying to get a reaction from me.

"Ignoring that," I said and his grin turned wicked. "The sum of the situation is that there is no solution, other than moving on."

"Or…" He paused for a moment and tilted his head to the side, seemingly lost in thought.

"Or…?"

He smiled. It was the sort of smile that told me that the next thing to come out of his mouth was going to be a really, truly terrible idea.

"We try the next best thing," he said.

"And that would be…?"

"Jealousy."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Think about it, Lewis," he said with a slightly manic glint in his eyes. "People desperately want what they cannot have. It's nature. The surest way to make something desirable is to make it unavailable."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"You make yourself unavailable to Kilbourne and I make myself unavailable to Angelina and suddenly, they can't resist us."

"You're not serious."

"Serious as Spattergroit."

"Even if that plan worked—which I doubt it will—you're missing a key detail in that neither one of us has any prospects."

"That's where the genius part of this plan comes in."

"Oh, there's a genius part of this plan?"

"Cheeky." He swatted at me. "You've contributed nothing to this brilliance, Lewis, but I'm going to share my plan with you anyway, out of the mountainous respect I have for our budding friendship."

"I'm honored. What is the brilliant part of this plan?"

He paused for effect and lowered his voice to a whisper. "The brilliant part of this plan is that the relationship that has made us unavailable will be a ruse."

He was clearly expecting some sort of reaction from me.

"Wait…so your brilliant plan to woo Angelina is to trick some other girl into being your fake girlfriend so that she will fall in love with you? Are you mad? Who on earth would agree to that?"

"Perhaps another like-minded individual who is struggling with a similar problem of her own." He looked meaningfully at me.

"Wait…you're not—"

"I am."

"You can't be serious."

"Deadly."

"Fred Weasley, you're asking _me_ to be your fake girlfriend."

"Spot on."

I paused a moment to try and collect my thoughts. "You realize that this is never going to work?"

"Well, not with that attitude," he said, quirking an eyebrow.

"I mean…it's insane. Completely insane."

He shrugged. "Could be. But what other options have we got?"

I hesitated.

"I mean, worst case scenario: it doesn't work," continued Fred. "So what? So we have a fake breakup to end our fake relationship. No harm done."

He was crazy. His plan was crazy. And yet, I hesitated. Why? I really can't say. Maybe it was the thought of just sitting back and doing nothing. Maybe it was the memory of Genevieve's pink cheeks and Aidan's hand over hers. Maybe it was the way Fred's eyes glinted in the half-dark of the garden, hinting at possibility and promising me something I didn't quite understand. Maybe it was all of that. Maybe it was fate.

"What's your plan?" I said finally.

Fred grinned and glanced at his watch. "Come back to the ballroom when the next fast song starts and I'll show you."

"Can you give me more information?" I asked as he stood.

"Now where's the fun in that?"

"But where should I—"

"I'll find you."

My stomach flip-flopped as I watched him go back into the ballroom. I had no idea what I had agreed to and I was fairly certain that this was going to turn into a spectacular disaster.

But at the same time, I was also certain that I was tired of being careful.

And so, when the tempo picked up, I rose from my bench and made my way back to the ballroom. I opened the door and let the noise and the heat wash over me, blocking out my misgivings and my pounding heart. I made my way back toward the dance floor. Fred had said he'd find me, and venturing into the thick of the noise and the heat seemed like the best way to make that happen. I spotted Bea in the crowd, dancing energetically alongside her Beauxbatons date. I made my way toward her.

"Where have you been?" she shouted over the music.

"Needed some air."

She nodded. "Where's Rodney?"

I shrugged and she rolled her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Char, he promised me he wasn't going to be a git."

"S'all right, he's—"

I was interrupted by a pair of hands grabbing my shoulders and spinning me around. It was Fred, looking flushed and out of breath, as though he'd been dancing for the last twenty minutes instead of sharing secrets and hatching plots in the garden with me.

"Charlotte Lewis!" he shouted. "Don't tell me you are going to let this ball end without doing me the honor of a dance!"

I laughed. "Really, Weasley? That's the line you're going for?"

He grinned and pulled me into a wicked quick-step without waiting for an answer. I laughed as I tried to keep up, spinning around the other dancers, and trying not to think of the precarious height of my heels. At the very end of the song, he swung me into a low dip and again my stomach dropped to the floor and my breath _whooshed_ out of me. But this time, his face seemed a little closer to mine and he was holding me a little longer than was strictly necessary.

We were both out of breath and laughing and neither one of us knew that we were playing with fire.


	2. Oranges in the Air

A/N: Thank you all for your kind words, follows, favorites, etc.! It's been so fun rediscovering the fan fic world and I'm having way too much fun writing this story. Chapter 3 should be up soon—I'm thinking that's going to be a more dramatic chapter. Please review and tell me what you think!

Shameless plug: Have you checked out my George/OC fic, _A Fair Amount of Courage?_ There are 16 chapters, so it's the perfect thing to read while you're waiting for Chapter 3 of this fic…

 _Chapter 2: Oranges in the Air_

Fred Weasley's fake courtship of me began in the Great Hall at half past noon on Boxing Day. And because it as Fred Weasley, it began not with flowers and poetry, but with a wink and an airborne orange.

"All right, Lewis?"

I looked up just in time to catch the orange before it landed in Bea's beef stew.

"What was that for?"

"Boxing Day. It's a gift." He winked and continued on his way with George and Lee.

"What was that about?" asked Bea as soon as he was out of earshot.

I shrugged and started peeling the orange. "Does anyone ever know with that lot?"

This part was easy for me to play: I had no idea what Fred was doing because he refused to tell me anything useful. He had been reluctant to even agree to anything as sensible as a timetable.

"A Weasley does not _romance_ a woman on a timetable, Lewis," he'd said during a slow song the previous evening.

"It's a fake romance, Weasley," I'd pointed out.

"Ah, but it has to be believable, doesn't it?" He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"It's believable enough with a timetable."

"You can't _schedule_ passion!"

After some more back and forth, we finally agreed on a compromise: we'd commence a casual flirtation that would culminate in a date and the start of our fake relationship on the next Hogsmeade weekend. The when and where of the flirtation was up to Fred to improvise. It would be more convincing, he argued, if he had the element of surprise. I reluctantly agreed that this was likely true, realizing only later that I had given Fred Weasley permission to surprise me. This seemed about as prudent as leaving a tea set in the care of a giant.

But then again, this plan wasn't exactly brilliant from the start.

Airborne orange aside, the first week of the plan was relatively uneventful. A friendly comment here and there, a joke or two at my expense—nothing particularly special that warranted any commentary or speculation.

The first day of term was a different matter, though.

When Transfiguration began on Monday morning, it was immediately clear that Fred and George were in rare form. In the first half hour of class, McGonagall had gone from the stern look and sharp "A _hem_ " to "Mr. Weasley, _that will be enough._ " Based on historical evidence, detention was likely to follow. And as always, this only seemed to embolden the twins.

"Sorry, Professor—first day of term and all," said Fred.

"We're very excited," added George.

McGonagall looked as though she believed nothing of the sort.

"Be as that may, Mr. Weasley," she said, "you must conduct yourself appropriately in my class or I shall see that you are spending your first week of term in detention."

"It's all George, Professor," said Fred. "He's a terrible influence. I would've made prefect if it hadn't been for him."

George delivered a good-natured punch to his shoulder. "Sod off."

"See?" said Fred. "Violent and profane."

"It would serve you well, Mr. Weasley, to learn a thing or two from our prefects," said McGonagall.

"Like I said, he's a corrupting influence," said Fred.

" _Mr. Weasley_."

This was the tipping point—this was the line that Fred and George rarely chose to cross. The silence hung heavy in the classroom as McGonagall dared them to take one step further.

"As I said, Mr. Weasley," said McGonagall after an unbearably long moment of silence, "it would behoove you to follow the example set by our prefects."

There was an odd glint in McGonagall's eye. I felt a little nervous, but I didn't know why.

"Fortunately, a new term is a time for new beginnings."

And suddenly, I knew exactly what was going to happen.

"I think it is time that we reconsider our seating arrangements. You, Mr. Weasley," she said, gesturing to Fred, "will be joining Miss Lewis. Miss Pierce, if you would kindly take his place…"

Bea stole one wide-eyed glance at me as she began gathering her things. We had been partners in every class since first year. The week that she had been out of class recovering from appendicitis had felt like a week without a limb. We divided note-taking responsibilities based on our strengths—I had an eye for detail, Bea had a knack for big and broad concepts. If one of us was ill or tired, the other would pick up the slack. We had devised a discreet and entirely foolproof system for passing notes. We were a sensational team.

Fred and George were a sensational team as well, I suppose, but not in the sort of way that was conducive to a good learning environment.

Bea rose from her seat and took her place next to George. Fred settled in next to me and made a good show of looking disappointed, but the twinkle in his eye told me otherwise. I waited until McGonagall had us start on the practical part of the lesson to ask the question that was burning in my mind.

"How on earth did you manage this?"

He shrugged. "Calculated risk based on previous behavior. What I'm really hoping for is a chain reaction."

"What do you mean?"

He grinned and turned back to his work. "You'll see."

I understood soon enough. Although it was clear the twins preferred each other's company to Bea and me, no one could deny that on the whole, Fred and George were much more well-behaved when they were forced to sit apart. Though she tried to hide it, McGonagall looked as though she had discovered something on par with a non-magically based solution to world peace.

"I hope you understand that it is not my intention to punish either one of you," she said to Bea and me after class. "The circumstances of this arrangement speak very highly to the level of trust I have in both of you, although I imagine that may not be much comfort."

"No, Professor, I understand," I said.

"It's classroom management," said Bea. "No harm done."

By the end of the week, the new seating arrangement had been replicated in all of my classes—even in Charms where Fred and George's misbehavior was met with the most patience and even in Defense Against the Dark Arts, where Fred and George were generally the best behaved. Without fail, each teacher asked Bea and me to stay after class to assure us that this was not a punishment. Even Snape made an effort.

"I expect that you will hold yourselves to a high standard of behavior in my class, despite your new…associates," he said.

"Yes, of course, Professor," I said.

"And I expect a similar level of excellence in your work."

"Absolutely."

He stared at us for a moment. "Thank you. You may go."

But Flitwick was the most honest.

"Honestly, we should have thought of this _years_ ago," he said cheerily.

For their part, Fred and George seemed to be making an effort. The mischief and misbehavior that could not be repressed was easily subdued with a sharp elbow to the ribs or a well-placed kick. Bea had taken it upon herself to deliver a set of expectations to George through a stern lecture that included the phrase "I will hex you six ways to Sunday" and several other variants. George took this all in stride and in fact seemed amused by the prospect of being annihilated by a sixteen-year-old more petite than a house elf.

Of course, Fred and I had no expectations to discuss. He knew what I expected of him and I knew that he was not going to tell me what to expect from him. It seemed, however, that airborne oranges were a dead certainty.

"All right, Lewis?"

This time the orange nearly landed in my lap before I caught it.

"It's not Boxing Day!" I said.

He shrugged and grinned as he strolled away. "Doesn't have to be Boxing Day for a gift."

"Is this a weekly occurrence now?" asked Bea as I started peeling the orange.

"You probably know as much as I do."

"He seems a bit keen on you."

I snorted. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, the oranges," she said, helping herself to a section of the fruit. "I seem to remember that he kept you rather busy at the Yule Ball. And you're spending quite a lot of time together now that you are his warden."

I popped an orange section into my mouth. "Come off it, it was only a couple of dances. He went with Angelina."

"Yes, and you went with Rodney."

"Fair point." I peeled another section off the orange. "I think he thinks I'm funny, you know? I'm the straight man in his comedic routine: very serious, rule following, no nonsense."

"Merlin, 'The Prankster and the Prefect.' Forced to sit together in class: love blossoms! It's practically poetic."

"It _would_ be, but I don't think that's in the cards."

She sipped at her coffee and leaned toward me conspiratorially. " _I_ think he's keen to hop on board the Lewis train."

I rolled my eyes. "The Lewis train? Really?"

"Be nice, the coffee hasn't started working yet."

I seized the opportunity. Bea had stayed out late with her Beauxbatons date. "Late night? How was your diplomatic exploration of foreign territories, Ambassador Pierce?"

"I know you're trying to change the subject but—" She leaned forward and continued in a low voice. "—the diplomatic team was pleased by the nation's offerings, although our visit was curtailed by international sanctions."

"So McGonagall caught you snogging in broom closet," I translated.

"She _almost_ caught us snogging and conducting some above-the-waist exploration in an empty classroom. Luckily, I have excellent hearing and have perfected the speedy and silent getaway." She raised her mug in a mock toast.

"So you're going to see him again?"

"Probably. But now I'm changing the subject back to you."

"Why? There's nothing to discuss."

"Oh, just the likelihood of Fred Weasley buying a ticket on the Lewis Express to Love City, population: you."

"Again with the trains!"

"The acceptability of my use of metaphor is not up for discussion at this time. The subject of your personal life is, however." She rested her chin on her hands and batted her eyelashes.

"There's nothing to tell," I protested, laughing. "He's just being Fred—there's no hidden agenda there."

"Well, why not? He's not bad looking, you know."

She wasn't wrong—Fred wasn't all that bad to look at. He'd grown up and filled out over the last couple of years, a far cry from the round-faced eleven-year-old who'd started school with me. Like most of the boys, he'd let his hair grow longish and shaggy this year—a look I wasn't particularly fond of—but it suited him. He had an excellent smile, a feature made all the more important by the fact that he was almost always laughing.

He was no Aidan Kilbourne, though.

"I don't dispute that," I said. "I just think that you're reading a little too much into this."

"Well," said Bea, crossing her arms over her chest, "we'll see about that."

I didn't feel guilty about lying to Bea. Well, I suppose "lying" isn't really the right word—it's not as though she asked me if I was planning a fake relationship with Fred Weasley in order to start a real relationship with Aidan Kilbourne and I had said no, of course not, that would be silly. I had just never told her that I had made that agreement in the first place. I was omitting rather than outright lying—same as I had done with Aidan. And in reality, wasn't this just an extension of that secret? I couldn't tell her about this without telling her about Aidan, so I might as well keep quiet and keep my head down for now and we'll laugh about this silly thing years later.

Like I said, I didn't feel guilty. Mostly.

If I was doomed for keeping secrets, at least I wasn't alone: Fred wasn't telling George, either. Initially, I made him promise to keep his mouth shut out of fairness—if I couldn't tell Bea, it was only reasonable that Fred couldn't tell his closest confidant either. Fred agreed, but only because he felt this would make our fake relationship seem more authentic.

"Have you ever kept a secret from him before?" I asked. This was at the Yule Ball, during the same slow song where we had plotted out our non-timeline of our fake romance.

He thought for a moment. "Here and there as the situation has required it, but not usually."

"What sort of situation would require secrecy?"

"Oh, the occasional joke." He grinned. "We're a team, but I like to throw a little treachery in every so often. Keeps him on his toes."

"Well, this is a little different than a joke. Is it going to be difficult for you?"

"It's not a joke, but we're still fooling them." His eyes—they were maple brown, I noticed—were oddly serious.

"I suppose so."

He smiled suddenly, the twinkle returning to his eyes. "It will make for a brilliant story when it's over—he'll love it."

 _If it works_.

The second phase of Fred's courtship began the following Monday before Transfiguration with a request for help with homework.

"Very funny," I said when he asked.

"I'm serious."

"I find it difficult to believe that you are serious, much less about schoolwork," I said, taking out my notes and textbook.

"Come off it, Charlotte, it's hard enough to ask for help as is." His eyes had lost some of their usual mirth. Maybe he was serious.

"Right—sorry. I just wasn't—it doesn't matter. Yes, of course I'll help."

"Brilliant." He smiled. "Meet me in the common room after dinner?"

"Sure."

The requested help was for a Potions essay on Golpalott's Third Law. To be honest, I wasn't sure how Fred was still in Potions—rumor had it that he and George had received a combined total of six O. W. L.s and I suspected that neither had received the necessary "Outstanding" to continue on in Snape's class. However, I also suspected that school administrators thought that perhaps three classes was not quite enough to fully occupy the minds and attention of two of Hogwarts' most notorious troublemakers. As it had been explained to me several times during the previous week, sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good and so Potions stayed on the schedule.

Snape, I wager, looked on this more as a punishment than a sacrifice.

Fred had picked an assignment that was particularly conducive to staging romance: bent over a shared parchment and textbook, there wasn't much in the way of personal space.

"You know, you're not half bad with the practical part of class," I said as I looked over his essay. We had taken over a table in the common room. He was resting his chin in one hand and leaning on the table, idly playing with a quill. "Your grasp of theory is rubbish, though."

"You know how to let a bloke down gently, Lewis," he said.

"You asked me to help, not to coddle you." I frowned at the parchment and crossed out a particularly problematic sentence.

"I thought that coddling was implied." He nudged me with his elbow. "Can you really resist a face like this?"

"Quite easily when you're this wrong," I said, crossing out another sentence.

"You wound me, my lady."

"You'll thank me later."

I helped Fred stumble through his essay for the rest of that week. He would meet me in the common room after dinner—the busiest time of day, ensuring that we would be seen together—and we'd spend about an hour working together. I learned a lot about Fred in those one-hour sessions. He always smelled of citrus and sandalwood. He had a habit of tapping his index finger on the table when he was thinking. He was an excellent speller, but routinely added an extra 'm' to "tomorrow." He was smarter than he had led most people to believe. He had a tiny mole just underneath his left ear.

I suppose that Fred must have learned something about me in those one-hour sessions. Probably that I chew on my thumbnail when I'm thinking or that my laugh resembles more of a high-pitched bark when I find something particularly funny. Maybe he didn't notice anything at all—he wasn't exactly the sort who seemed to spend much time in reflection. Occasionally, his knee would accidentally bump mine or he'd knock his hand against mine while reaching for a quill. In those moments, he'd look at me as though we were sharing a secret and we'd both start laughing.

To an observer, it might have looked as though we were flirting. The truth, of course, was far funnier and more complex. We laughed because we were the only ones who were in on the joke; we were the clever ones who had fooled everyone else.

At least, that's what we thought.


	3. The Corridor

A/N: Again: thank you all for reading, reviewing, following, favoriting, etc. I always love hearing from you all—it makes the experience of writing this fic so much fun. As promised, this chapter is a bit more dramatic…maybe. You tell me! Also, I would be remiss if I did not mention the Harry Potter Lexicon's wonderful calendar timelines of each book—I realized I needed to add an extra week and I would not have figured that out without the Lexicon.

 _Chapter 3: The Corridor_

The first tipping point came almost three weeks after the Yule Ball. It was the sort of point where the sensible part of my brain ought to have stepped in and said, "Now, really _,_ this is _not_ a good idea." It was the sort of point that would cause an observer to cluck disapprovingly and say, "She ought to have known better." But the sensible part of my brain was oddly silent and clever as I was, I didn't know better.

Not yet, anyway.

I had taken great pains to avoid both Aidan and Genevieve since the Yule Ball. I didn't really want to think about them being together as a reality, even though I had agreed to embark on a very hare-brained and ill-advised scheme in direct response to that specific reality. Better to ignore it than think about it too much—it was safer for me that way. And so I ducked around corners to avoid Genevieve and gave up making up excuses to talk to Aidan. I distracted myself with new problems and worries. And for a time, it worked.

And then one day, it didn't.

My prefect rounds include a specific corridor not too far from the Charms classroom. It is particularly out-of-the-way and very poorly lit, which makes it very attractive to both couples and mischief-makers. This corridor had become my responsibility because I had absolutely no reservations about camping out on one of the benches with a book. No amount of cuddling or canoodling could embarrass or dissuade me. My presence was typically enough to discourage troublemakers and ensure that the couples kept their hands mostly visible. Last year, I had caught my sister Bianca and her boyfriend Hector Culpeper so many times that Hector had taken to calling me Cold Shower Charlotte. Bianca suggested that he rethink that nickname; when he didn't, she ended their relationship the following day by enlisting a Ravenclaw Chaser to fly a twenty-foot breakup banner round the Quidditch pitch before the Ravenclaw/Slytherin match.

"How exactly did you manage this?" I asked.

Bianca gave a scary sort of laugh. "Oh, I have some connections."

There are times when I am certain that it is only fear of my mum's disapproval that keeps Bianca from turning to a life of crime. I can't deny the efficacy of her methods, though: the unfortunate nickname didn't stick, even though I was still patrolling the same corridor during my sixth year.

It was a Thursday in the third week following the Yule Ball and the corridor was more occupied than usual. Rodney and his Hufflepuff friend—Spencer? Stanley? Must ask Bea—were sniggering over what looked to be a tawdry magazine, which quickly disappeared as soon as they caught sight of me. They attempted to casually stroll away, an effort that was undermined by the fact that Rodney tripped over an untied shoelace. There were the usual couples—the pair of fifth years who were always in the middle of a whispered argument, the fourth years who only ever held hands, Nadia Minkowski and Otis Warren, Rochelle DeLaurentis and Oliver Esposito, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students who I didn't recognize…

And Aidan and Genevieve.

Years of pretending that Aidan was no more than a friend and sometimes study partner had prepared me for this—my expression betrayed nothing. I was nonchalant, almost bored, a semi-authority figure who did not particularly want to be here and had other, more important things on her mind. You couldn't tell from looking at me that my stomach had dropped straight through the center of the earth. You couldn't tell that my heart was pounding hard against my ribs and not with the giddy thrill of a glance sent my way—Aidan only had eyes for Genevieve.

I sat down on my bench and pulled out my Transfiguration textbook. I would not look at Genevieve and Aidan, even though I could see them well enough from my place on the bench. I would stare at my textbook and turn the page every so often, even though I couldn't focus quite well enough to make actual sense of what I was reading.

I knew I was being stupid—it's not like this was a surprise to me—but the fact that they had gone down to this very corridor to cuddle and canoodle lent a particular weight to their relationship. It was no longer an idea or theory that existed somewhere that was swept easily out of sight: it was real and undeniable.

It also seemed a little—a lot—pathetic that I wasn't in this corridor because I was pursuing romantic trysts of my own. I was in this corridor because I was supposed to be a third wheel. Cold Shower Charlotte, spinster prefect, chaperone of couples. All I needed was twenty-two cats and a permanent scowl.

I don't really know how long I sat there pretending to read my textbook, but an interruption eventually arrived in the form of Fred Weasley. It was as though he had a particular talent for finding me when I was sitting on a bench and wallowing about the state of my romantic prospects. And like last time, I wasn't in the mood for jokes or clever conversation.

"What're you doing here?" I asked as he sat down next to me, not taking my eyes off of my textbook.

"Can't a bloke visit his favorite prefect for no particular reason?"

"You always have a reason, Weasley. Or a motive, more like."

"One of these days you're going to make me cry, Lewis, and then you'll be sorry."

"Doubt it. How did you find me, anyway?"

"Memorized your rounds, of course."

I ventured a glance up from my textbook. He was grinning.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Lewis." He leaned toward me. "A large part of my success can be attributed to general awareness of what areas are unsupervised."

"You're a genius," I said, turning back to my textbook.

"This corridor's for amateurs anyway." He swiped the textbook from my hands.

"Hey!"

"I'm imparting pearls of wisdom and you're ignoring me for this rubbish." He squinted at the text on the page before shutting the book with a snap. "I have half a mind to be offended."

I sighed heavily. "What do you want, Weasley?"

He frowned. "What's got into you?"

"Nothing. It's been a long day."

"I don't believe you."

I shrugged. "Then don't. It doesn't bother me."

Maybe I flinched. Maybe my eyes flickered just for a second toward Genevieve and Aidan. Maybe he just guessed. Whatever it was, Fred glanced down the corridor and suddenly understood.

"Aha. Long day indeed."

"It's nothing," I said quickly.

"Nothing?"

"I mean—it's not like it was a surprise…"

"Sure."

"It's just—"

I struggled for the right word. Fred tilted his head thoughtfully and I suddenly remembered that he understood. I had forgotten why we had made this bargain in the first place: because we had both been hurt, to a certain extent. Fred perhaps more dramatically than me—he had actually confessed his feelings to Angelina. I hadn't been nearly that brave.

"…you know how it is," I said finally.

"Yeah."

We sat in silence for a few moments.

"So what are you going to do about it?" he asked. His eyes glinted in a way that made me think he already knew the answer.

"Why are you always asking me this question?"

"You're an enigma, Charlotte Lewis," he said, making a grand, sweeping gesture with his hand. "How can I not be curious about the inner workings of the greatest mind of our generation?"

"Now you're just being cheeky."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He was smiling. "I ask because someone has to give you a push."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I've seen how you operate. Most of the time, you're self-assured—you run all the facts through that cunning brain of yours and choose the smartest path for the smartest solution and you don't look back because you don't need to." He paused. "But sometimes, you freeze. You balance on a precipice between thought and action until someone gives you a push." He bumped his shoulder lightly against mine.

"And you're basing this analysis on the single conversation we had at the Ball?" I didn't want to admit he was right. Not just because he becomes insufferable when he's right, but because admitting he was right meant being more vulnerable than I wanted to be at that moment.

Fred's eyes glinted. He knew this. Of course. The git.

"I won't reveal my secrets," he said. He bumped my shoulder again. "So…what are you going to do about it?"

I didn't want to answer this question. Answering meant admitting more powerlessness, another vulnerability.

"Nothing," I said after a moment.

"Nothing?"

I shrugged. "There's not much I can do. So much for that precipice, eh?"

"You are grossly underestimating your options, Lewis."

"And _you_ are grossly overestimating the power that I wield over the universe."

" _I_ think you are forgetting about the bargain we made."

There was a heavy pause, as though he had delivered a punch line and was waiting for me to react. My heart drummed against my ribs and I swallowed.

"What do you mean by that?"

He grinned. "Come off it, Lewis, you're _hardly_ that thick."

And he leaned in and kissed me.

I admit that prior to this point, I had not given much thought as to what it would mean to be Fred Weasley's fake girlfriend. In the back of my head, I assumed that there would be some public displays of affection and that such displays would probably include some kissing. But I hadn't really thought about what that might be like—it seemed like the sort of thing that would be better to worry about when it was happening.

Well, it was happening.

I hadn't kissed many boys at that point, but I'd kissed enough to know that Fred was good. There was an unexpected sweetness and gentleness to his motions—he was soft and careful, tracing my lower lip with his tongue, coaxing me to kiss him back. Tentatively, I did.

He tasted like oranges.

His hand came to rest on my neck, thumb grazing my pounding pulse. I was fairly confident that he knew that I was blushing to the roots of my hair and that my stomach was simultaneously attempting to drop through the center of the earth and launch itself into space. Maybe he knew that I was thinking of Aidan and Genevieve while also trying to ignore them; maybe he was thinking of and trying not to think of Angelina. I tried to push that from my mind. I leaned into the kiss and tried to lose myself in the heat of our mouths, lips, and tongues.

Fred was the one to pull back after a moment. He looked at me, our noses almost touching.

"You've been reading more than just your textbooks, Lewis," he said quietly, quirking an eyebrow at me.

My blush crept from the roots of my hair into my skull. Fred's smile grew wider.

"You're enjoying this far too much."

"Of course I am." He was unrepentant. "I'm going to kiss you again. Give it about a minute and then run off."

"Why?"

"Dramatic exit." He was leaning toward me, shrinking the already small gap between us. "It'll turn some heads."

Although I was more prepared for this kiss, my heart was still pounding wildly and my cheeks were still burning. That same gentleness was still there—though he was clearly amused by my nervousness, that didn't mean he didn't care or didn't understand. He kissed me with care, almost like a question, and he followed my tentative, stumbling lead.

And so it almost felt a little cruel to suddenly pull away from him about a minute later and flee the scene with a mumbled "sorry." He called after me as I bolted down the corridor, but I pretended not to hear him and I pretended not to notice the heads that were turning as I sprinted down the corridor.

I ran until I had a stitch in my side and until there were several corridors and a few flights of stairs between Fred and me. I came to a stop, panting and laughing.

"Good gracious, child!" exclaimed a portrait of a severe looking woman clutching a sour-looking spaniel. "Are you ill? Why are you laughing?"

I didn't really know the answer to that question and that made me laugh even harder.

My prefect rounds now went something a little like this: I would begin to make my way to my usual bench only to be waylaid by Fred, who would snake an arm around my waist and pull me to the nearest alcove or bench for what appeared to be clandestine snogging.

What the observer didn't realize was that these were carefully planned and cleverly orchestrated. As he pulled me toward the nearest alcove or bench, Fred would press his lips against my ear and murmur a time limit. It was up to me to keep track of the time and stage my exit.

Despite what my initial nervousness might suggest, this proved to be excellent stress relief. It was nice to be held and kissed, even if it was all a ruse. If I was prone to particularly strong flights of fancy, I could have easily pretended that it was Aidan I was kissing and not Fred. I didn't, though, mostly because that seemed like a dangerous line to tread—although, as I've said before, it's not like this entire plan was brilliant from the start.

On the fourth day, I saw Angelina secluded in an alcove with Lee Jordan. This was the first day that Fred did not whisper a time limit in my ear. He didn't say much of anything, but there was an urgency and fierceness in kiss that wasn't there before. For the first time, I understood the full nature of his heartbreak, or whatever you want to call it. Lee was one of his friends. Even if Fred hadn't confessed the full nature of his feelings for Angelina to Lee, the pain of being betrayed—even inadvertently—by a friend didn't exactly make the situation any easier. In fact, it was the sort of thing that might make a person think that a particular ill-advised scheme might just be worth it.

Initially, it was difficult to say whether our plan was working. I had heard no rumors other than Bea's train-based soliloquy, which I was reluctant to acknowledge as anything other than Bea's overactive imagination. By the third day, I was beginning to worry that I was embarrassing myself for no reason, not to mention the fact that in doing so, I had been leaving the corridor unsupervised. But finally—finally—on the fifth day, the Hogwarts rumor mill began to creak its way into action.

"Heard a funny thing from Rochelle DiLaurentis," said Bea at lunch. Her eyebrow had a slight twitch, which usually means that she has a secret.

"Out with it, Bea."

" _She_ said—" Bea paused here to take a wholly unnecessary sip of her tea. "—that she'd seen you and Fred Weasley snogging in that corridor by the Charms classroom not once, not twice, but _three_ times this week."

It had actually been four times, but I wasn't going to correct her. I knew what I had to do here: laugh, deny, deflect.

" _Three_ times? It's a miracle that I have time to study."

"Now normally I'd be inclined to dismiss such a claim," said Bea, going on as though she hadn't heard me, "but I _have_ noticed that you have become rather…acquainted with the gentleman in question and I think that he has certainly expressed an interest in purchasing a ticket for a certain locomotive wonder—"

"You are not going to give up on this train thing, are you?"

"I will turn this train metaphor into an epic oral history that my descendants will tell for generations because I will include it as a specific condition of their inheritance. That is how much I believe in this metaphor."

I rolled my eyes. "You have the soul of a poet, truly. But I'm sorry to say that unless Rochelle thinks Fred is my Transfiguration textbook, I haven't been spending time with anyone in that corridor."

Bea pressed her palms together and stared at me thoughtfully. "Can I _really_ trust the word of someone who has no appreciation for the art of the metaphor?"

"Really, Bea: would I lie about something like this? When have I ever lied to you?"

It was difficult to say that without feeling guilty. There was no getting around it: I was lying. Not tiptoeing around or omitting the truth, not paraphrasing or reframing, but straightforward, old fashioned lying. The fact that Bea didn't look as though she fully believed me didn't make it any easier to bear. Luckily for my conscience, she soon found out that the rumor about my extracurricular activities with Fred Weasley was less of a rumor and more of a fact.

Bea had her fair share of boyfriends while we were at Hogwarts, but she was not a frequent patron of the corridor by the Charms classroom. Like Fred, she was of the opinion that this corridor was for amateurs and also like Fred, she knew when I was likely to be there and was able to adjust her schedule accordingly. Had I thought that there was any chance that she might turn up during one of my calculated snog fests with Fred, maybe I would have been a little more honest with her when she asked about it.

Maybe.

It was the sixth day of our clandestine kissing, the second day without a time limit. We were in a partly secluded alcove and I had just lost myself in a delightful place where the only thing that mattered was the physical feeling of being kissed. I wasn't thinking of anything—not Aidan, not Fred, not schoolwork, not the responsibilities I was ignoring, not the secrets or the lies. I was simply enjoying the feeling of his lips on mine and my hands tangled in his hair without worrying about what anything meant.

"You _minx_!"

My eyes flew open and Fred broke the kiss, turning toward the source of the noise.

It was Bea. And her Beauxbatons date. Of course.

"I cannot _believe_ —" Bea looked as though she was torn between strangling me for lying and cackling triumphantly because I had proven her right. Righteous but resigned anger eventually won the day. "You and I are going to have a chat. _Later_. And _you will tell me everything_."

I nodded.

"And _you_ ," she said, wheeling on Fred and stabbing an index finger into his chest. "I expect you to make an honest woman out of her."

"Don't you think we're a bit young for marriage?" asked Fred. "Next year, sure, but now? We're practically babies."

"Don't be pert, you know what I mean." She jabbed her index finger into his chest with every syllable. "None of this 'sneaking-about-to-snog-but-can't-be-bothered-to-take-her-on-a-date' rot. She's too good for that. You will act like a gentleman and you will take her on a _proper_ date."

"I wouldn't dream of anything less."

Say what you want about Fred: he can be disarmingly sincere when he wants to be. Bea's eyes softened just a little and her expression became a touch less murderous. But only a touch.

"Good." She gave his chest a final jab for emphasis. She looked back at me with an expression that seemed to suggest that we would talk later or I would risk losing several important limbs. She finally grabbed her befuddled Beauxbatons date by the hand and stalked off down the corridor.

We only dared to smile when she was well out of earshot.


	4. Hogsmeade

A/N: Once again: you are all lovely. bellatrixD is extra lovely and included this fic and my George/OC fic ( _A Fair Amount of Courage_ ) as a recommended read in her newest chapter of _Begin Again_ , which is probably one of my current favorite fics (also _Mending Broken Souls_ ). If you're looking for well-written and well-crafted Weasley twins stories, I highly recommend her work.

Not sure how I feel about this chapter. I think it did what I wanted it to? It was a bit tricky to write, though, so I'm not sure if I succeeded. Tell me your thoughts!

Chapter 4: Hogsmeade

Bea's dad sometimes jokes that it is no accident that her name is only one letter away from a very angry insect. This annoys Bea, which only serves to prove her dad's point, annoying her even further and entertaining the rest of us. Bea can be incredibly funny when she is angry. She looks deceptively sweet—she's barely over five feet tall and she has the sort of heart-shaped face that always seems to be on the verge of a smile. She does not look like the sort of person who would approach an argument with the single-minded persistence of a Welsh terrier. Even though we've been best friends since we were eleven, it's surprising how easily I forget this.

She was already staring at me when I walked into the common room that evening, as she had situated herself in one of the armchairs by the fire that allowed her an uninterrupted view of the portrait hole. There would be no sneaking upstairs to the dormitory, not if I didn't want to make things worse. I rehearsed my argument as I made my way toward her: _I didn't mean to lie, it just happened, I'm not good at talking about these things…_

"How long have you been staring like that?" I asked as I sat down in the chair opposite her.

"Charlotte Victoria Lewis _do not_ try to change the subject."

"I can't very well change the subject if we haven't even started the conversation yet," I protested.

"Don't try to argue semantics with me either," she said, eyes glinting dangerously. "You know _exactly_ why we are here and you have some serious explaining to do."

"Look, I know you aren't happy with me—"

Bea snorted.

"—and I understand why. I know I lied to you and I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to turn out like this. Really."

Was that another lie? I wasn't sure.

"I didn't _like_ keeping this a secret. This whole thing just sort of…happened and I didn't really know what to make of it, so I didn't talk about it."

"That is why _I'm_ here, you idiot!" exclaimed Bea, throwing her arms up in a plea to the heavens. I was encouraged by the fact that she called me an idiot—Bea didn't like idiocy, but she tended to see it as a temporary and sometimes excusable condition. She was much less forgiving about traits she perceived to be inherent. "Bloody hell, Charlotte, if you'd just _told_ me, I would've helped you work it out."

"I know, I _know_ —"

"Then why didn't you—?"

"Because it's not that simple, Bea."

"Of course it's simple—"

"Maybe for you it is, but—" I was starting to feel flustered as we edged closer to the truth. "I mean—how often have you heard me talk about a boy? Not bloody often."

"Not for lack of trying," she retorted. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: you do not devote nearly enough time to being young and stupid."

This was an ongoing battle between the two of us. Bea felt that I needed to devote more time to having fun, which she defined as having an occasional fling or even an exclusive relationship. Since I was already harboring a secret crush that I had no intention of revealing, I took the position that I could be young and stupid over the summer holidays, but I was much too busy during the school year. Bea felt that I was missing the point. She may have been right.

Of course, I couldn't tell her half of this. I took a deep breath.

"Look—it's just…I've…I've always felt really… _weird_ and vulnerable about that sort of thing."

"I've got that, but _why_?"

We were at the truth—or, at least a part of the truth.

"I don't want to be like my sisters," I said after a moment. "They are lovely, wonderful girls but the moment that a boy gets involved, they turn into idiots. I never wanted to be like that so I just…I just avoided that possibility entirely."

I was surprised to find a lump in my throat—had it really bothered me to keep this from Bea?

Bea sighed, but not unkindly. "Seven hells, Charlotte. You are without a doubt the smartest witch I know, but sometimes you are remarkably thick."

Now it was my turn to be angry. "I'm baring my bloody _soul_ here, Bea—"

"No, I didn't mean—" She paused for a moment, seeming to struggle with her words. "You're not just smart, Charlotte: you're sensible and you have good judgment. Those are not qualities that go away because you have a boyfriend, not if they're genuine. You have nothing to worry about."

"Thanks, Bea," I said quietly.

"You're quite welcome, but next time just talk to me, please?"

"I will. I really am sorry."

"I know." There was a hint of a smile—a real one—around the corners of her mouth. "And now that you have bared your soul and various neuroses, I understand your reluctance to share recent developments in your romantic life. I accept the apology sonnet that you are no doubt going to compose for me by the end of this conversation."

"I am sorry, but I am not writing a sonnet."

"That is non-negotiable per section 7, clause 3, paragraph 8 of our Friendship Contract," said Bea, matter-of-factly. "And now that we have cleared up the matter of your recent secrecy, that brings me to my second grievance: your romantic activities as of late."

"What's wrong with my romantic activities as of late?"

"Namely that I know nothing about them."

"Is there something specific that you wanted to know?"

"Oh, just a few details," said Bea airily. "Including, but not limited to: how did this happen, when did this happen, the quality of kissing and other activities, the extent of other activities, how long have you fancied him, and when is the wedding?"

"I don't know it just sort of…happened," I offered, lamely. I had not given much thought to this part of our conversation.

"Not a satisfactory answer. Try again."

"There's not really a lot to tell. We had a couple dances at the Yule Ball, he started chucking oranges at me, then we were partnered in class, he asked for help with an assignment…"

" _And_ …?"

"…and he showed up during my rounds in that corridor and we started talking and then he kissed me and it was rather nice."

"And…?"

"And what?"

Bea heaved a beleaguered sigh. "Honestly, Charlotte. For someone so detail-oriented, you are being remarkably vague."

"Well, I don't really know what else there is to tell!"

"Let's start with how long has this been going on?"

"Since Saturday."

" _Every day_ since Saturday?"

I felt a blush creeping up my neck. "Maybe."

Bea looked impressed. "Snogging! Six days in a row! It's like I don't even know you. So, how is it?"

"What?"

"The kissing, of course."

"I said it was rather nice, didn't I?"

"That is hardly descriptive."

My cheeks were flaming. "He's…he's quite good."

"Is it just kissing or—"

"Merlin's pants, Bea, it's hasn't even been a week, we're not even…I don't know what we are, but we're not anything yet."

"Yes, that brings me to another point," said Bea, suddenly becoming very serious. "He's got to take you on a proper date."

"I think that you were pretty clear about that in the corridor."

"I'm serious! No mucking about, that's not fair to either of you."

"What happened to being young and stupid and all your talk of flings?"

"That's different," she said. "A fling is like my Beauxbatons friend—"

"What is his name, anyway? You've never said."

She rolled her eyes. "Devereaux."

"His _first_ name?"

"Now you know why I call him my Beauxbatons friend." She sighed and shook her head. "He won't even answer to 'Dev' like a sensible person. He thinks it's common. He insists on calling me 'Beatrice' for the same reason."

"…And you _like_ this person?"

"See, that's the point: at the end of the year, I will probably never see him again. And that's fine because other than an interest in snogging, we have very little in common. Devereaux is the very definition of a fling—fun, but not for real."

"And Fred…?"

"Well, obviously, you're going to see Fred after the end of this year, so there's that. But Fred isn't a fling. He looks like a fling on the surface because he can't take anything seriously half the time, but when it comes down to it, he's not a fling. Neither is George, I suppose." She paused and smiled a little. "I think Fred could be something special if you let him. I would have never have thought to put the two of you together, but it does make a certain amount of sense."

I shifted in my seat, trying to hide my discomfort. The point of this entire exercise was not to lead Bea to conclude that Fred and I were meant to be together: the point was to ensure that we both ended up with other people.

"I don't know if we're going to have a date," I said as casually as possible. "I mean…we haven't really talked about it…"

"Yes, well, it sounds like you haven't done much talking at all…" She dodged as I aimed a kick at her shins. "I wouldn't write it off—Hogsmeade is Saturday. The timing is practically perfect."

 _Practically perfect_. Oh Bea, if you only knew.

"And besides," she said, trying to suppress a smile, "I seem to recall that Hogsmeade is a stop on the Lewis Express…"

"Bea, if you say one more thing about trains, I swear I will tell Peeves about that empty classroom you and Devereaux have been using to snog."

"But I was right!" she cackled. "You rejected my power of prose only to be bowled over by a train of truth!"

I let her have her moment, albeit grudgingly. After all, she was only half right about Fred and me.

"And speak of the devil," she said, nodding toward the portrait hole, where Fred and George were both clambering into the common room.

"Oi, Lewis!" called Fred, as soon has he caught sight of me.

"What is it, Weasley?"

"Are you going to Hogsmeade on Saturday?"

"Yes…"

"Want to go with me?"

"Like a _proper date_?" interjected Bea.

Fred feigned offense as he and George flopped down in two empty armchairs. "Of course it's a proper date, I'm a gentlemen, aren't I?"

"That is debatable," said Bea, "but she accepts your offer."

"What are you, my social secretary?" I asked.

"Yes," said Bea. "I'm also your wardrobe consultant _and_ you're going to let me do your makeup. Because you owe me."

I wasn't about to argue that in front of Fred and George. Bea had me and she knew it.

"Fred, will you let me do your makeup?" asked George, batting his eyes.

"Sorry, mate, Lee asked first," said Fred. "Next time."

"'Next time?'" said Bea. "Awfully confident, aren't you?"

"Oh, I have a hunch," said Fred, looking meaningfully at me and I allowed myself a small, shy smile in return. Bea and George waggled their eyebrows at each other as though they knew something that we didn't, completely unaware that we were already in on the joke.

Saturday morning dawned clear and cold. I know this because Bea flung open my bed hangings not very long after the sun had begun to peek over the horizon.

"'s matter?" I yawned, shielding my eyes.

"Up! Into the shower!" she said cheerily. Her unbrushed hair coupled with the manic glint in her eyes made her appear slightly unhinged.

"Too early," I mumbled.

"I know you, Charlotte Lewis," she said, yanking the covers off of my bed. "You are going to spend at least fifteen minutes sitting motionless on your bed trying to wake up, twenty minutes fiddling around in the lavatory, at _least_ an hour in the shower, another twenty minutes fiddling around after your shower, then you'll want breakfast and you'll probably insist on reading the bloody paper—I'll barely have enough time to get you presentable."

"I'm beginning to regret agreeing to this," I grumbled as I sat up.

"Too late!" said Bea, beaming. "Now, start sitting motionless on your bed, we've got a schedule to keep."

Bea's knowledge of my morning routine was disconcerting, but accurate almost to the minute. When I finally emerged from my shower, it was nearing half past nine. I returned to the dormitory to find that had Bea dressed, showered, and emptied what looked like the entire contents of my wardrobe onto my bed.

"What have you—"

"Good, you're done." She dropped the sweater that she'd been inspecting. "Come on, we've got twenty minutes for breakfast."

"I hope you're planning on putting all of this right—"

"Twenty minutes!" she repeated, grabbing me by the wrist and setting a brisk pace down the stairs. "We're on a schedule."

I scarcely had time to choke down some orange juice and porridge before Bea was chivvying me back up the stairs and into the dormitory.

"You didn't let me read the paper," I protested, sitting down on Bea's bed, as there was no space on mine. Bea was digging through a pile of my sweaters and waved me off distractedly.

She eventually decided on soft grey sweater dress that fell just above my knees and black leggings. After scolding me for failing to own a proper pair of dressy boots, she put an Engorgement Charm on a pair of her own, with explicit instructions to take them off before the Charm started wearing off, lest they stretch permanently. She finished off the look with one of her wide belts, cinching it tight at the waist.

"I'm not sure the belt is necessary," I said, assessing my reflection.

"No, it's perfect," said Bea. "It ties the whole outfit together _and_ it gives you a figure like an hourglass. Now sit down, I've barely got time to get your hair and makeup sorted."

Bea refused to let me look in a mirror during this next part—"it's better if you see the finished product"—so I spent the next twenty minutes or so staring blankly into space while Bea muttered to herself and fussed with hairpins and innumerable pots and tubes of every beauty product imaginable, occasionally instructing me to look up, look down, close my eyes, or stop fidgeting.

"Right," she said finally, capping a tube of lipstick. She looked appraisingly at me and smiled. "I think that does it. You can have a look now."

"You realize that I've put an enormous amount of trust—?"

"Oh go on and look in the mirror," said Bea, rolling her eyes.

I stood and turned to face the full-length mirror. Bea had done a nice job—she'd pulled my hair back into a loose chignon at the nape of my neck, letting a few artful tendrils escape here and there. The makeup that she'd chosen was soft and natural, emphasizing my eyes and lending my lips and cheeks a rosy sort of glow. I looked like…well, I looked like a girl who was about to go on a proper date.

 _But it's a fake date_ , said a small, nasty voice inside of me. I hastily banished that thought. Now was not the time for that sort of reflection, not with Bea looking at me expectantly and the clock ticking away the minutes until I was due to meet Fred.

"Trust well placed," I said with a smile. "Thanks, Bea."

"You're quite welcome." She looked at her watch. "Ooh, we should get going."

We bundled up in our coats and scarves and hurried down to the courtyard. Fred spotted me first.

"There she is, the lady of the hour," he greeted, accompanied by George who was grinning mischievously. "How are you, my dove?"

"Keep calling me 'my dove' and this date will be over quite quickly," I said archly.

"Ooh, she's being shirty," said Bea in the sort of indulgent tone that a parent might use to describe a precocious toddler. "That means she fancies you."

"I like my women feisty," said Fred, eyes twinkling as he grabbed hold of my hand and began pulling me toward the queue of students waiting for Filch to check their names against the list of students with Hogsmeade privileges. "Come on, now, George'll look after Bea."

"I'll keep her out of trouble," said George solemnly. "Same as I do during class."

Bea snorted. "Right."

"Look, Bea, I didn't want to tell you this, but that whole spectacle was a setup," said Fred.

"The two of you had become far too disruptive during class," added George.

"The laughing…"

"Mucking about…"

"Not paying attention…"

"And that terrible scene with the Dungbombs…"

"It had to be stopped," sighed Fred.

"We just didn't want to hurt your feelings," said George, patting Bea on the shoulder consolingly.

"I'm touched, truly," deadpanned Bea.

"See? She's in excellent hands," said Fred.

"Nothing to worry about," said George cheerily. Bea said something that I didn't quite catch as Fred led me away, although the arch of her eyebrow told me that it was likely sarcastic.

The line moved slowly. Filch barely gave me a second glance, but his eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Fred and he seemed to take extra care looking through his list, peering beadily at Fred as though he believed he could detect rule breaking through the sheer power of squinting.

"I've got my eye on you," he said finally, jabbing a finger at Fred. "One toe out of line and there will be consequences, mark my words…"

"Cheers," said Fred brightly, as though Filch had merely commented on the weather or the dinner menu for that evening.

"I half expected you to smart off," I said quietly once we were out of earshot and walking up to the village.

Fred chuckled. "No, learned that lesson the hard way on the first Hogsmeade visit. He held us back for nearly two hours while he tried to talk McGonagall into revoking our Hogsmeade privileges."

"For smarting off?"

He shrugged. "Something about how that represented a clear intent to cause disruption. He wasn't far off—we did spend about half of our savings at Zonko's when we finally got up to the village."

I realized that we were still holding hands. Flushing, I made an attempt to drop Fred's hand. He squeezed my hand more tightly.

"We're on a date, Lewis," he said quietly, leaning toward me a little.

"Oh, right. Sorry, forgot."

"Forgot?" he said, chuckling. "That's a new one."

"Well, I haven't been on many fake dates," I said primly. "Speaking of which, where are we going?"

"Madam Puddifoot's, of course."

" _Madam_ _Puddifoot's_?"

"You look like I've suggested tea in Azkaban," said Fred, looking genuinely entertained. "You _may_ want to look a little more pleased—if anyone looks over right now, they're not going to think you're happy about this."

I forced a smile. "Tea in Azkaban would be an improvement. I _hate_ Madam Puddifoot's."

"So do I, but that's not the point. If we want to get people talking, that's the best place for us to be spotted."

I suppressed a sigh, trying to keep my face relaxed and happy. He was, of course, right.

"Fine. But only for a half hour and then we're going to the Three Broomsticks like sensible people."

"One hour and I'll buy you a butterbeer."

It wasn't a great bargain, but I suspected I didn't have many other options.

"All right," I conceded.

It was early yet, but Madam Puddifoot's was already half full of couples and just as revolting as I had remembered it. We grabbed a table by the window, not very far from Rochelle DiLaurentis and Oliver Esposito. There was no sign of Aidan or Angelina. I couldn't decide if I was relieved or disappointed. We ordered our coffees and shrugged off our coats.

"All right," I said with a sigh. "Note the time on your watch. One hour."

"It's not all that bad," said Fred, looking around at the frilly décor. "It's quite cozy."

"You're baiting me."

Fred grinned. "'Course I am."

Madam Puddifoot returned with our coffees and I quickly busied myself with the milk and sugar.

"You look quite nice," said Fred. I looked up, startled, feeling a blush start to creep up my neck.

"Oh, thanks," I said, accidentally knocking the lid off the sugar bowl. "It was all Bea."

"Ah, yes, the social secretary."

"Wardrobe and makeup consultant as well." I stirred my coffee. "She's very much in favor of this…" I gestured vaguely at the two of us. "Thinks it'll be good for me."

Fred raised his eyebrows. "I think that's the first time anyone's ever suggested I'm a positive influence. It feels very strange."

"How the mighty have fallen," I said. "She thinks I don't have enough fun."

Fred seemed to consider this for a moment, but before he could offer any sort of observation, the bells on the door tinkled and George burst into the teashop out of breath. Bea trailed behind him.

"Hi," he said coming up to our table. He flashed me a charming smile. "Sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Fred for just a moment."

"What for?" said Fred and I at the same time.

" _He's_ here." George looked significantly at Fred. "Three Broomsticks."

Fred's expression suddenly became serious. "Well, we've got to—"

"I know that's why—"

"Since he hasn't—"

"None of the owls—"

Fred was fumbling for his coat and scarf now. "Sorry, Charlotte. I've got to—"

"See a man about a dragon," supplied George. "Bea will keep you company."

Bea, who had been looking rather lost during this entire exchange, started at the sound of her name. "I will?"

"Right you are," said George, steering her into the chair that Fred had just vacated. "You can talk about…whatever it is that girls talk about."

"Makeup and goblin politics," suggested Fred.

"Sounds about right."

Fred leaned in quite suddenly and pecked me briefly on the lips. "I'm really sorry—I'll be back soon."

He and George dashed out the door of the shop, the bell tinkling merrily.

"What just happened?" I asked.

Bea shrugged. "We went into the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer. Next thing I know, George is dragging me up the street muttering about needing to find Fred."

"Any idea who they need to talk to so desperately?"

Bea helped herself to a sip of Fred's coffee, made a face, and reached for the sugar bowl. "No idea. There were loads of people in there—some goblins as well." She dumped several heaping spoonfuls of sugar into Fred's coffee.

"I think he takes his coffee black," I said.

"Shouldn't have left then," said Bea, stirring her coffee briskly. "So, how's your date?"

"Er, well, we walked up here, chatted some, and then he ran off," I said, shrugging. "So I'm not entirely sure…he did say I looked nice, though."

"Nice enough that he'd better have a bloody good excuse for running off on you."

"Well it seemed quite important," I said as Bea took another sip of her coffee. "What're you still doing with George?"

"Funny thing: the two of you being on a date means that George and I are on our own. So, we decided to spare each other the loneliness. We were planning your wedding before George bolted out of the Three Broomsticks."

"Wonderful," I said without any enthusiasm.

"It will be very tasteful," said Bea. "George reckons that Snape would only wear a boa and pasties for the reception, not the ceremony."

Luckily I was spared from further disturbing imagery by the arrival of Fred and George. They were both red-cheeked, out of breath, and seemed rather put out.

"— _something_ about it…" George was saying in a low voice as he and Fred approached our table.

"Right then," said Bea, rising from her seat. "Well, George and I will be off. We've got a ceremony to plan."

"Yes, I had a thought about that," said George to Bea, his dour manner seeming to lift slightly. "How do you feel about a chorus of house-elves?"

"Ooh! We could have them carry candles!"

George winked at me as he and Bea departed, deep in conversation about whether there was a way to get a chorus of house-elves into some white ceremonial robes without accidentally setting them free or offending them with clothes.

"What's this about singing house-elves?" asked Fred as he resituated himself in his seat, shrugging off his coat and scarf.

"They are planning our wedding."

"Ah, of course," said Fred, seeming unperturbed both by the fact that George and Bea were planning our wedding and that it involved singing house-elves. "Sorry to run out like that."

"What was that about?" I asked.

"Long story," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. He winced and nearly spat it out.

"I've got time."

"Well, it's—" He seemed to be searching for the right word as he set his coffee aside. "It's rather…sensitive."

"'Rather sensitive?' What happened to your talk of 'baring souls' and 'trust of our new-forged friendship?' And don't you think you owe me a proper explanation after dashing out like that?"

He grinned. "All right, Lewis. But you're not to breathe a word of this to anyone."

"Fred Weasley, I would rather die than betray a dance partner," I said, quoting his assertion of loyalty from the Yule Ball.

"Cheeky." He suddenly reached across the table and grabbed my hand. "Might as well give the impression of romance—don't roll your eyes, you're ruining the moment."

I tried my best to affix a benign, flirty sort of expression on my face as I leaned across the table to hear him better.

"George and I made a bet at the World Cup this summer," he said quietly.

"What was your wager?"

"That Ireland would win, but Krum would catch the Snitch," he said. "We bet our savings."

"But…" I frowned. "…that means you won…"

"Yes." There was no hiding the grim set of his jaw. "But the bookmaker paid out our winnings in leprechaun gold. It disappeared a few hours later. We thought it was a mistake at first, but he's been ignoring our letters. We tried to speak with him in the Three Broomsticks, but…"

I was horrified. "Who is it?"

"Bagman."

"My sister Alice is in the Ministry," I offered lamely. "I could see if she might be able to help."

"We're handling it," said Fred curtly and I could tell that the subject was good as closed.

"Well…if you change your mind…"

He gave a small, grim half-smile and squeezed my hand lightly. The bell behind me tinkled and Fred glanced up at the door.

"Don't look," he said quietly. "Your friend and…his friend just walked in. We really need to think of proper code names…"

I tried to focus on Fred. Aidan and Genevieve made their way to a table that was—of course—just to the right of us. Aidan was gallantly pulling out a chair for Genevieve, his hand lingering on her shoulder as she smiled widely—

"Hey—Charlotte." It had only been for half second that gaze had strayed, but Fred had seen it. He squeezed my hand.

I took a deep breath. "Sorry. Wasn't expecting—" I trailed off. "Is it stupid of me not to expect it at this point?"

He squeezed my hand again. "Talk to me about something," he suggested.

"What?"

"Anything. Were you at the World Cup this summer?"

"Yes, it was our Lewis Sister Adventure," I said.

He looked amused. "Your what?"

"A Lewis Sister Adventure. It's a family tradition, I suppose. We go somewhere every year—just the four of us. For bonding, or what have you."

"Sounds like a laugh."

"Oh, it's usually marvelous until Ophelia picks a fight," I said. "That sets off a chain reaction: Alice storms off in a huff, Bianca yells shrilly at everyone, and I sit there quietly wondering how I came to be related to three maniacs. Two hours later, there's a teary group hug and everything is resolved until the next time."

"I'm glad I've only got the one sister," said Fred fervently.

"There are advantages and disadvantages." I could hear Genevieve giggling.

Fred squeezed my hand again. "Keep talking."

I told him about how the previous summer, our Lewis Sister Adventure had been a weekend in London, staying at a nice hotel. Alice painted my toenails with varnish that had been bewitched to change with my mood while Bianca and Ophelia chortled over a game of Gobstones. That evening, Ophelia ordered takeaway from two different Chinese restaurants because one didn't have eggrolls on the menu and the other had the audacity to put mushrooms in their lo mein. Bianca tried firewhisky for the first time, which didn't help matters when Ophelia picked her obligatory fight, which was abruptly ended when Bianca, stuffed with mushroom-free lo mein and firewhisky, vomited spectacularly into her own handbag. I'd laughed so hard that I cried, while Ophelia yelled at me for being immature and Bianca yelled at Ophelia for yelling and making her headache worse. Alice, having earlier stormed off to the adjoining bedroom in a huff, opened the door long enough to yell at Ophelia for bringing firewhisky in the first place.

I don't know why I chose this stupid, rambling, and somewhat embarrassing story, but the more I talked, the easier it was to retain my focus and tune out the low rumble of Aidan's voice and the occasional giggle from Genevieve.

"Hour's almost up," said Fred, discreetly glancing at his watch. "I reckon we should probably do a little snogging before we leave." He glanced pointedly at Nadia Minkowski and Otis Warren, who seemed to be doing their best to swallow one another whole.

"Can't we do that in the Three Broomsticks?" The perfumed air was starting to make me feel dizzy.

Fred grinned. "Brilliant idea, we'll have a go there as well." He was leaning in closer now. "If people see us here, it gives it a certain amount of legitimacy. Besides, your hour isn't up."

I sighed. "You're bloody impossible."

Fred tutted. "I'm about to kiss you, Lewis. Try to look a little more starry-eyed."

My heart thudded heavily in my chest as he closed the gap between us. Madam Puddifoot's was more public than the dark corridor…and I suppose it seemed more likely that Aidan might catch a glimpse of us in better lighting. This made me unaccountably nervous—what would he think? Would it matter at all?

Fred's hand crept to the back of my neck to draw me closer, almost as if to say _Enough, Lewis. It's a fake relationship. Stop thinking so much_.

I shut my eyes tighter and tried to tune out the sounds around me, losing myself in the taste of coffee and oranges.


	5. Dastardly Plans

A/N: Well hello! I apologize for disappearing. Long story short: life got crazy busy. Many thanks once again for your patience and kind words!

In my haste to post the previous chapter, I may have done a slight disservice to the narrative—I think that the first part of this chapter actually makes the most sense as the ending to the previous chapter. This is a hazard of writing a story in a serial format, I suppose. Anyway, that's my thinking on that. I'm curious to hear what your thoughts are!

 _Chapter 5: Dastardly Plans_

I suppose I shouldn't have been terribly surprised that my first fake date with Fred Weasley ended in a manner that could only be described as unconventional—and not the unexpected-but-relatively-normal-all-things-considered sort of unconventional, either. This was a shoeless-and-carried-off-under-protest-to-Gryffindor-Tower sort of unconventional. It was the sort of thing you ought to expect on a date with Fred Weasley—which is to say that you probably wouldn't expect it.

I sound like a madwoman. I suppose that's a side effect of agreeing to one of Fred Weasley's plans: you start thinking in riddles and the world starts to look like a dizzying optical illusion. But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Where to?" asked Fred as we left the Three Broomsticks. "Shrieking Shack? You can pretend to be scared and leap into my arms."

"Not in these boots," I said, flexing my toes. Bea's boots had started to pinch on the walk back from Madam Puddifoot's and had grown steadily more uncomfortable.

"Great art requires great sacrifice," said Fred.

"I didn't realize that this was art."

"'Course it is," he scoffed. "Isn't art about storytelling? Maybe even illusion? Is that not what we're doing?"

"I don't know—" I broke off as the mild pinching on my toes suddenly changed to a persistent and intense pressure.

"All right?"

"Yes, it's just these bloody boots."

"What about them?"

"They're Bea's. She's got little feet, we had to put an—" The reason for my discomfort became suddenly and horrifyingly clear. I dropped to the ground and began tugging at the clasp on my right boot.

"Er—"

"Engorgement Charm," I said as I struggled with the clasp and Fred understood. He knelt down and began working on the left boot. Two almighty yanks and both boots were off with not a moment to spare—they had shrunk back to their original size. My feet were a little blistered but none the worse for wear.

"Well, that was thrilling," said Fred. "I thought it would take at least five fake dates before I got you out of your shoes, but this isn't quite what I envisioned."

"Shut it," I said, swatting at him. He easily dodged me.

"Is that any way to treat your knight in shining armor?"

"I may be Cinderella, but you sir are no prince."

Fred frowned. "Who?"

"Cinderella. Muggle fairy tale." The snow was beginning to chill my toes and seep into the back of my dress. "Right, well, I suppose I could conjure—"

"No, I've a better idea," said Fred in a cheerful sort of manner that was not at all reassuring. "Here, take this." He handed me the left boot.

"What are you—?"

He hooked one arm under my knees and the other around my waist and lifted me off the ground.

"Chivalry lives on!" he declared, grinning.

"Are you mad? Put me down!"

"Like I said, Lewis, we're great artists." He lowered his voice slightly. "This will turn some heads."

"And throw out some backs!"

He chuckled. "Hardly. Now stop it or I'll drop you in a snow bank."

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

"Fred Weasley—"

He relaxed his arms for a split second and I yelped, throwing my arms around his neck.

"You're horrible!"

"Again with the insults," he sighed. "Really, Lewis, I've literally swept you off your feet and all I get is abuse."

"Yes, well, I don't recall any knights in shining armor who threatened to drop their damsels into a _snow bank_."

"I don't recall any damsels being so cheeky. Now tell me about that Muggle fairy tale you were talking about earlier. Cinderwhatsit."

To an observer, I suppose it must have looked rather romantic: a long-legged boy carrying a shoeless girl through the snow, into a castle, and up the stairs, both rosy and red-cheeked from laughter and the cold. The reality was that the rosy-cheeked girl was telling the boy a fairy tale that he found both hilarious and utterly confounding.

"I still don't understand why the prince needed a shoe to work out who Cinderella was," he said as we approached the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Was he Confunded?"

"I told you, he wasn't under any spells."

"But if he's not enchanted, I don't see why a shoe needs to be involved. She's the love of his life: shouldn't he recognize her?"

"Fred, it's a fairy tale. It's not meant to be practical."

"Yes, but that seems like quite an oversight, even for Muggles."

"What on earth are you doing?" asked the Fat Lady, frowning at us.

"Chivalry lives on!" said Fred cheerily. The Fat Lady looked mildly impressed.

"Oh, don't encourage him," I sighed.

"A well-mannered—" she began.

"Edelweiss," I said and the portrait door swung open.

"Well, _really_!" exclaimed the Fat Lady.

"You really set a terrible example," tutted Fred, carrying me into the common room. He deposited me neatly on a couch by the fire before collapsing beside me.

"Oh, do shut up," I said, dropping the boots on the floor and shrugging out of my coat. "You really oughtn't have done that."

"I can still drop you in a snow bank," he said, grinning and kicking off his own boots.

"I'm just trying to look out for your well-being," I said, chucking my scarf and gloves on the floor. "If you'd thrown out your back hauling me up the stairs, I couldn't live with the guilt. You'd never play Quidditch again."

Fred looked as though he was about to say something when his eyes flicked over to a corner of the common room and the grin faded from his face. I followed his gaze and understood: Angelina and Lee, cuddled up in an overstuffed armchair, her hands tangled in his hair, his hands gripping the small of her back, their eyes closed, lips pressed together.

"Hey." I took Fred's hand and his eyes flicked back to me. "Talk to me about something."

He smiled—not a full smile, but almost. "About what?"

I shrugged and shifted on the couch so that I was facing him, tucking both legs under me. "I dunno, I shared a lengthy, embarrassing family story with you. Let's have one of yours."

"All right."

And so he told me about how he and George once spent an entire summer taming a squirrel that lived in a maple tree in their garden. He was entirely brown except for one white patch around his eye, which made him look a bit like a pirate. They called him Reginald. By July, he was eating food directly from their hands and they had trained him to run on a little wheel that they'd made from a repurposed biscuit tin. In August, their mother walked in on them unexpectedly while they were trying to teach Reginald to navigate a miniature obstacle course that they had built using—among other things—several of her good saucepans and a large ornamental vase. The boys were grounded for the remainder of the summer and Reginald permanently banned from the premises.

"Honestly, she was mostly upset about the vase," said Fred. He had angled himself on the couch so that he was facing me, his left foot hooked under his right knee and his left arm draped casually over the back of the couch. Lee and Angelina were still there, but not directly in his line of sight. His face had relaxed and he seemed much more like himself.

"I think that was entirely warranted," I said. "Was it especially fragile?"

"No, belonged to my great-great-great-great-great grandfather or some relative," he said. "It may have been gifted to him by the Minister or someone important."

"A family heirloom with historical significance. And you used it for a squirrel obstacle course," I said pointedly.

"Well, we didn't _know_ that at the time," he protested. "Mum had never told us. It was just a big vase that was out in the parlor and we needed something tall."

"Be honest: would you have used something else if you'd known that?"

Fred sighed. "Who am I to question the hand dealt to me by fate, Lewis? Can any man say for certain that his path would be different based on what he did not know?"

" _I_ think you still would have done it," I said, smiling slyly. "You just thought you weren't going to get _caught_."

"I thought you dropped Divination with the rest of us this year."

"It's not Divination, Weasley, just context clues and common sense."

He chuckled. "Well, she grounded us for the rest of the summer. Problem with that strategy is that she could only last about three or four days before she'd start yelling at us to go outside and get out of her hair."

A low giggle from Angelina filtered across the common room. Fred's smile faltered almost imperceptibly. I quickly stepped in.

"I have never been grounded."

Fred looked genuinely shocked. " _Never_?"

"Not once. My sisters were grounded loads of times, especially Ophelia. Dad actually spelled her window shut one summer because she kept sneaking out to meet unsuitable boys."

"What made them unsuitable?"

"Oh, leather jackets and piercings and motorbikes and the like," I said. "It was almost a bit clichéd. They all had nicknames like Spider or Grunt."

"You're making that up," he said with a laugh.

"I am not. There was one called Spleen who was missing three fingers and a tooth."

"That cannot possibly be a real person."

"I assure you, he's real. Ophelia dated him for about six weeks and he came round to dinner a few times. He was actually quite a nice chap—he'd always bring flowers for Mum and he taught me how to play Muggle card games."

Fred chortled. "So, your sister has an ex-boyfriend named Spleen and you have never been grounded."

"I live a fascinating life."

"Not too fascinating if you've never been grounded," said Fred. His eyes lit up as a thought occurred to him. "Or it's quite possibly very fascinating and you've just never been caught."

"Well…" I paused.

"Well…" said Fred, his smile becoming more devious. "What are you going to confess, Lewis?"

"I snuck out of the house once," I said, rather enjoying the look of shock on Fred's face. "It was over summer holiday. A girl called Sibyl Mercer was having a bonfire in her backyard and I knew my parents wouldn't let me go because it started after midnight."

Fred looked positively delighted. "Charlotte Lewis the _prefect_ sneaking out to illicit midnight bonfire parties! I misjudged you."

"Don't get too excited," I said. "It was terribly disappointing—they were all half pissed when I got there and they had put on this horrid album by some depressing Muggle band. I remember this one boy kept going on about how it was revolutionary and people just don't understand what good music is anymore. I was back home by half past midnight."

"So you're a rebel in training," conceded Fred. "Tell you what: I'll take you to an illicit bonfire party for our second date and make up for it. It will live up to all of your expectations."

I raised an eyebrow. I wasn't entirely sure if he was joking. "If you can manage it, I might consider it."

Fred grinned. "Challenge accepted. You won't be disappointed."

"I should hope not." I glanced at the window and noted that the sun was fairly low in the sky. "What time is it?"

Fred looked at his watch. "Blimey. Half past five."

"Well, I'm supposed to meet Bea at six to deliver my report on today's events," I said, suddenly feeling rather awkward. "So I suppose we ought to conclude this? I'm not really sure what the etiquette is for this sort of thing…"

Fred chuckled. "You're concerned about etiquette?"

"What?" I said, somewhat defensively. "I mean, I haven't really…" I cleared my throat. I wasn't really interested in sharing the particulars of my lack of experience with dates, fake or otherwise. I lowered my voice. "It's not like I've been on many fake first dates."

Fred grinned and rose from the couch, grabbing me by my hands and pulling me to my feet. "Come on, I'll show you the proper way to close a fake first date."

"Since when are you an expert?"

"Ooh, that's a faux pas, Lewis," scolded Fred. "Never antagonize your handsome gentleman companion. Luckily, I'm a very forgiving sort."

"Luckily."

Fred smiled and put his hands on my waist, drawing me close. "For whatever it's worth," he said quietly, "I did have a nice time, Charlotte. Even though it's all part of our dastardly plan."

I could help but smile. "Me too. Thanks, Fred."

"Not at all." His hand had crept up to cup the back of my neck and I knew that he was going to kiss me. "I'll meet up with you at lunch on Monday to plan the next one."

"I think Bea may kill you if you don't," I said, only half-joking. "She is very much convinced of this whole thing."

"Duly noted." He closed the gap between us and kissed me softly. It was gentle and sweet in a way that caught me slightly off guard—it was a softer version of our various encounters in the corridor, and somehow more intimate than the kiss at Madam Puddifoot's.

He pulled away a moment later, and gave me a quick wink.

"I'll see you later."

"See you."

After he left, I sat back down on the couch. My knees were a bit wobbly—I hadn't really had a proper lunch, I recalled. Only coffee and some biscuits at Madam Puddifoot's. No wonder I was feeling lightheaded. I'd feel better after dinner.

I ought to have known better.

The tricky thing about going on a first date—even a fake first date—is that if you happen to live at a place like Hogwarts, there is absolutely no escaping it. Even if it goes well, there is some level of awkwardness—not only are you in close proximity to your date, you are also in close proximity to the commentary and analysis that follows. The social community at Hogwarts is both insular and closely knit, to the point that any sort of change or disruption to interpersonal relationships is subject to a certain amount of speculation and curiosity. Though our plan was ridiculous by anyone's definition of the term, at Hogwarts it had at least a minimal chance of success: at Hogwarts, no one's business was strictly their own.

This is doubly true if your best friend happens to be Bea Pierce.

As I expected, the interrogation started at dinner, with a demand for a full play-by-play account of every single thing that we had done since she had left me at Madam Puddifoot's. No detail was too inconsequential, nothing could be omitted or overlooked. When I got to the part about the Engorgement Charm wearing off and Fred carrying me up to Gryffindor Tower, she actually sighed.

"Bea, you cannot possibly think this is a grand romantic gesture."

"You cannot possibly think that it's _not_!" she said, affronted. "That is so romantic it may as well be from a bloody fairy tale. That is the sort of moment that people immortalize in tapestries that they hang in their libraries and great rooms."

"You are neglecting to acknowledge the fact that we both have magic at our disposal," I said. "I could have easily remedied the situation if he hadn't insisted on being an idiot."

"Charlotte," said Bea in the same, overly patient tone that one might use when addressing a small child, "when a bloke _literally_ sweeps you off of your feet and carries you unnecessarily up many flights of stairs, it is because he fancies you. It is _not_ because it is a practical solution."

"He could have seriously injured himself."

"And he risked that for you!" said Bea, bringing both hands to her heart with a wholly unnecessary amount of drama and another extravagant sigh. "That makes it even _more_ romantic!"

"It makes it ill-advised," I corrected her.

Bea glanced heavenward and sighed as though I was causing her physical pain. "This is quite possibly the most romantic thing in the history of Hogwarts and it is utterly wasted on you."

"I'm concerned for his wellbeing!" I protested. "I think I'm being very thoughtful."

"Did you notice I didn't even ask about my boots? That's how romantic this is: I don't even care if they're ruined if they were ruined in service of this great moment."

"Your boots are fine, we got them off in time. I'm not so sure about you, though."

"I _should_ turn this into a tapestry," said Bea, pretending not to hear me. "It would make a lovely wedding gift. I'll do a border of trains around it as well so your children understand the powerful metaphor that brought you two together."

"I thought we had exhausted the train metaphor."

"I thought I had made my commitment to this metaphor very clear. Now, I'm sure I could find a spell to do the tapestry, but would it be a more meaningful gift if I learned to weave and did it the Muggle way?"

"Do you want to hear about the rest of my date, or are you just going to soliloquize about trains and tapestries for the rest of the evening?"

Bea's commitment to both the tapestry and the train metaphor was second only to her insatiable curiosity about my personal life. She was rapt as she listened to the rest of my account, interrupting every so often to quiz me on some minute detail.

"So," she said after a while, "inquiring minds wish to know: will there be a second date? Follow up question: when?"

"We didn't really discuss specifics but…" I smiled and glanced quickly at Fred down at the other end of the table. "…I have a feeling that there will be another one."

True to his word, Fred showed up at lunch on Monday with smile and a plan.

"Lewis," he said, sliding into the seat next to me, "what are you doing on Saturday?"

Bea caught my eye and waggled her eyebrows in an entirely unsubtle way. I ignored her.

"It depends. What time on Saturday?"

He grinned. "Midnight."

"Sleeping, I imagine. Why?"

"Did I not promise you a non-disappointing illicit midnight bonfire party for our second date?"

I was at a loss for words. "Er—well, yes…"

"And did you not say that you would consider it if I could manage to get it arranged?"

"I was under the impression that you were joking."

His smile grew wider and he looked enormously pleased with himself. "You've got to learn to take me more seriously, love."

"Wait a moment," Bea interjected, "you promised her an illicit bonfire party?"

"It's what every girl wants," said George, taking a seat next to Bea. "We read about it in _Witch Weekly_."

"Are you not aware of Charlotte's scandalous history as a frequenter of disappointing illicit midnight bonfire parties?" Fred asked Bea.

"It was one time," I protested. "Sibyl Mercer's party. I told you about it, Bea—it was horrid."

"Oh right!" said Bea with a wide smile. "The one with the drunks and music philosophers! I'd forgotten about that."

"Do you actually mean to tell me that Fred was being serious about you sneaking out of the house?" asked George, looking even more shocked than Fred had when I'd told him the story. "I assumed he was being hyperbolic."

"He probably was, but yes, I did on _one_ occasion sneak out of my house to attend a bonfire party at midnight," I said.

George gave a low whistle. "Charlotte, I'm impressed."

"So, to clarify: you're throwing an illicit bonfire party at midnight on Saturday," said Bea.

"A _non-disappointing_ illicit bonfire party," clarified Fred.

"It's a select group of sixth and seventh years, so we're trying to keep it relatively quiet," said George. "Of course, you're both on the list."

"I should hope so," said Bea.

"So?" Fred nudged me with his elbow. "What d'you say, Lewis?"

"Again, I must clarify: this is a _proper_ date," said Bea.

"As proper as a non-disappointing illicit bonfire party can be," said Fred.

Bea nodded, looking pleased. "Very good, she accepts your offer."

"Now wait a minute—" I protested.

"D'you think you should negotiate first?" George asked Bea. "See if you can get some flowers or jewelry out of it."

"That's a fair point…" mused Bea.

"How is it that the two of you are always here when we're trying to arrange something?" I asked. "Am I not afforded any privacy in this school?"

"It's part of my job," said Bea. "Social secretary and wardrobe consultant, don't you remember?"

"We take it very seriously," added George.

I sighed and turned to Fred. "Look, this is very thoughtful of you, but sneaking out of school after hours? That's a serious infraction. If we're caught—"

Fred looked at George and they both laughed.

"You're with us, love," said Fred. "We don't get caught."

"We're professionals," added George.

"It'll be fine," said Fred. "Trust me."

I took a deep breath. Sneaking out of my house was one thing; sneaking out of school was on an entirely different level. There was risk in sneaking out of my own house had risks, but sneaking out of school was the sort of rule-breaking that made me feel sweaty and a little queasy. Getting caught felt inevitable.

But Fred's mischievous smile was reassuring in its own strange way and the twinkle in his eye made me feel like perhaps he was right. Perhaps it would be all right.

One more deep breath. _I am done being careful_ , I reminded myself.

"All right."


End file.
